Then they look at me different,
the girls who’ve heard I’ve been loveless fucking
a boy out of my league, a 9 to my 6,
that we’ve had sex without story, without aligning star signs
or postcodes or appetites or dreams or references.
Soon everyone I know knows too,
and, rather than ask, they draw diagrams,
write research papers on my bloodline,
search my eyes for pity pupils, sniff for chloroform,
check his bank balance for unaccountable income,
wait for my clothes to magically evaporate and think,
that must be it, that’s how she does it,
for they must unsex what makes me desirable to him
because it cannot, absolutely cannot be my body as it is.